


can't leave lonely alone

by thegirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mourning, Rickon is Robb's carbon copy ok I will fight you on this, Unrequited Love, reek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl/pseuds/thegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes found Theon’s face, and they hated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't leave lonely alone

Theon thought he was ready to die.

No, Theon had been ready to die.

It had been an impending reality, a threat that was not a threat but a promise. He saw the promise in the eyes of every lord and lady in the north, in Stannis Baratheon’s blue eyes, in Asha’s hard ones full of regret and helplessness.

He was going to die. It would be soon.

All he had done to live had been for nought - he should have killed himself long before. He still doesn’t know what he had been waiting for - salvation? A time machine? Here he was, clinging onto the edge of life with his remaining fingers, and for what?

Theon had been ready to die.

Then, on one overcast day, the trumpets sounded, and the women burst into tears as the great, still burned doors of Winterfell creaked open, and the men cheered and yelled, the children as clueless as Theon began jumping up and down to see the cause of the commotion, an energy suddenly filling the dead halls.

He doesn’t know what’s going on; nobody wants to talk to a dead man walking, to Theon Turncloak, to the Bastard’s Reek.

Theon stands as tall as he can, ignoring his wounds making him wince, trying to get a look, one good, long look before the end - maybe Stannis, maybe the little princess and the Queen-

And then he sees him.

It’s like a sucker punch, he’s breathless, because Robb Stark, hand in that of Lord Manderley’s granddaughter, small and young and with a head, is walking into the courtyard of Winterfell.

Theon knows what Robb looked like at five, knows Robb’s five year old face better than he knew his own mother’s now. Robb’s large, blue eyes shining with curiosity and kindness, his cheeks pink and lightly freckled, his hair curls of fire.

The first kind face he’d seen in the North, in this bleak, cold place where he’d die. He still remembers his unending curiosity - Theon, is it true you can breathe underwater? Theon, is it true you were a prince? Theon, is it true that you can shoot an arrow at a thousand paces - and his damnable ability to worm his way into your heart. He still remembers _now and always._

Theon is quite suddenly not ready to die.

And he knows, rationally, rationally - pah! - that this is not Robb. This is not Robb. There is not enough magic in the entire damn world to bring Robb back to him, in any form. No, he must go to Robb, not in this life, but the next.

But he must be Robb, he is Robb, he could be-

This is not Robb.

Robb is a corpse, cold and rotted, now simply bones like every other man would be. His face was not attached, his skin was not pink and freckled, his eyes were not blue, his hair was not red. He was nothing but a memory, nothing but a ghost, soon to be nothing but a name in a history book.

It still doesn’t stop Theon calling out Robb’s name. Weak and wretched and half dead inside his throat. Nobody hears him over the cheering, and that’s probably for the best.

This must be Rickon, little Rickon, fierce beastie-

_Robb, Robb, Robb._

It’s the first time Theon truly wishes he had burned Bran and Rickon, for true.

Because then there would be no copycat Robb, no thrumming in his heart that maybe he can go back, _maybe he can go back,_ he had failed the friend, he would not fail the brother, because then there would be no broken hope in his breast that breaks with every heartbeat, no onslaught of fractured memories (Robb’s gappy smile, Robb’s victorious hoots on horseback, Robb’s scream as a snowball went down his back, Robb’s frown of concentration as he tries to hit the target) coming faster and faster(Robb’s eyes sharp in low lamplight, Robb’s tongue caught between his teeth, Robb’s hair brushing against Theon’s hand, Robb’s skin skimming across Theon’s - just a bump in the hallway, just an accident, nothing more, nothing more) and oh-

Just then, Robb- Rickon, Rickon- sees him.

His eyes found Theon’s face, and they _hated._ Burning, unmerciless. Robb’s eyes, Rickon’s eyes, Lady Catelyn’s eyes, Sansa’s eyes, Bran’s eyes - they hated. They _hated_ him.

Suddenly, Theon is back on earth, head spinning.

This is not Robb. (This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. This is not Robb. )

Robb is a corpse.

(Robb never hated him. _Did he?)_

And suddenly, Theon is ready to die again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked, please, please, please review and leave kudos. It means so much to me :) Thanks for reading!


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